


Prisoner

by akdaley



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi (2017)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Control, Edging towards PWP, F/F, F/M, Freeform, Fucking, I guess charitably you could say this is poetic porn?, Imprisonment, Jedi, No end in sight - I thought this was complete, Psychological Warfare, Rape/Non-con Elements, Unredeemed Kylo Ren, but I suppose fucking is never complete if you're Jedi?, dubcon, mental landscapes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-04-24 08:41:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14351946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akdaley/pseuds/akdaley
Summary: Rey is Kylo Ren's prisoner. He needs information from her head. She needs to get out of there.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Пленница](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15071555) by [Tersie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tersie/pseuds/Tersie)



> Hi. Public service announcement that this fic has some elements in it that are very much dubcon and might be perceived by some as non-con, although as the author I see it more as... consent within the rules of the game they're playing, but it's just that they're playing different games and neither knows what the game of the other is. 
> 
> However, if this is extremely not your thing, you might want to not read it. Updates will be sporadic, whenever I feel in the mood. It could go on forever, really, with these two fucking each other raw for many happy months to come, but I don't know if I will ever write a plot or not. At this stage, perhaps I feel that I shan't.

He senses her imprisonment long before he receives the communication that she has been captured. She is on one of his ships, surrounded by his people. The darkness is everywhere about her.

It’s easy to sense her. He can feel her fear, the way she is lashing out against a restraint that gnaws against her wrists.  He can feel the metal of it, digging into her wrist bone. The way it hurts and angers her.

If he tries, he can even taste the blood that is pooling in her mouth where she has been punched. It is swirling around her gums, swallowed and then gagged up again as she heaves. He knows the taste of blood.

He can feel the way her body moves. He can always feel that, just as he can always feel how the light inside of her burns, that steady, desperately white brightness. Her body and her light. To him, they’re the same thing.

 

+

 

That first night, she fights like a mad animal that sees a way out, not like one that’s been cornered. It’s not what he thought it would be.

Her lip is swollen. Her eye is black-blue. The skin of her shoulder has been ripped and is starting to scab over in an ugly yellow crust. There are restraints around her. The journey to where he is has taken her three days and they haven’t been kind to her on the way. They have enjoyed hurting her. He can sense the way she has been kicked, hard, down to the floor and then kicked again.

Her hair is lank, unwashed and thick with grease. There are shadows around her eyes, and her skin is too pale. She hasn’t eaten, nor drunk anything like enough. She looks weak. Three days can do a lot to a person, in the right set of circumstances.

Now she stands, almost motionless, in the corner of the cell into which they have placed her.

They’ve taken away her saber, of course. She is defenceless. Yet when he goes towards her, when he pushes into her mind with the Force, what surprises him is that she still fights like she has something to lose.

She tries to push back. A surprising sensation, that. Since Snoke died, no one has tried to get inside his head.

Her presence fizzes at the periphery of his mind. It is as if she is looking back at him from a mirror in which he thought he could only see his own face. She isn’t him, but she’s inhabiting his space.

He moves, and she moves with him. Reflected in shadow, her in light. They push at each other, seeking ascendancy. Her eyes meet his, for a brief moment.

 _Brown eyes_ , he thinks. _Interesting._

Nothing more.

The journey has broken her body, but there’s no physical torture that breaks Jedi. If he wants her truly broken, there are other things he has to do to her. Things that only he could do.

He takes a breath, draws the force to him. With his mind, he steps inside her own.

+

The place is white and calm. At first, it looks very much like Luke Skywalker built it. The tranquillity of the vast dunes, nameless trees in the distance, an expanse of controlled space, the clear sand and the crystal ocean. He can sense his uncle here, in the neatness of the place, in its unfolding towards eternity.

Still, there are details that don’t belong to Luke, as he looks harder. He senses her fight. The sand seems to gather, as if the dunes might form into a swarm. Their surface undulates, threatening. It is not all still here. Not everything is a spring day on an isolated stretch of coastline.

They are in a room – somewhere on a ship? Metal, cold. Iron gratings. He has never been here before, nor anywhere like this. This isn’t Luke.

He turns around. There is a crackling fire in the hearth that scorches at his skin. As he feels the heat of it, it starts to grow. It turns into an inferno.

 _Get out of my head_ , she is thinking. The fire rages. Its flames rise higher than him now. They are taking over the white space, encircling him, hissing.

 _Get out_ , she thinks.

He shrugs his shoulders.

_I don’t think I will._

His hand moves, and the flames freeze. He can’t reduce them in size, but he holds them in stasis.

She sounds threatening, angry. _Get out. Let me go._

Around him, the colours burn bright. There is that taste of blood again.

He’s standing in a world of flame, of burnt death and rage. What else is new? He smiles at it. He feels more at home here than he does in his uncle’s anodyne white no-lands. Flames in her mind can’t burn him.

He is the criminal. He is the one with the power. She is only the victim.

 _Why would I let you go_? _There are so many things to discuss._

_I’ll never tell you what you want._

He makes the motion of laughing, although that’s a behaviour he struggles with these days. It comes out as something more like a choked hiss. He is turning serpentine. One day, he half expects he’ll start shedding skin. He’s losing all the human things he used to have.

He doesn’t mind. The sooner the better.

_How can you know you’ll never tell me, if you don’t know what I want?_

Her teeth grit. He feels them jarring together.

_Because it’s you who wants it. Whatever you want, I’ll never give._

Her anger jolts him. Even though he’s holding off the flames, she gets something through. It stabs him, withdraws him sharply out of her mind. He recoils.

The two of them are back in the cell, her eyes affixed on his. There is lidless fury in them. She hasn’t said a word out loud yet. What does she need to say that can’t be better communicated in her head?

He looks back at her, controlled, calm.

‘That’s enough for now,’ he says. ‘But you will give me what I want. You’ll give me the last of the Resistance, and then I’ll kill them. If you’re good, you can watch.’

She doesn’t answer. Only looks at him, but her expression is enough.

+

He comes back the next morning. It was late when she arrived; he should have been sleeping, rather than greeting her. But just like a child, he never could resist waiting until the morning to unwrap a special present.

She hasn’t slept. The cot is untouched, its covers immaculate. There is no sign of her having moved at all in the last eight hours.

 She is standing in exactly the same place he left her, apparently motionless. There is a steady fuzz of energy around her that he recognises.

‘You’re meditating.’

At that, she does look at him. She doesn’t speak. Her eyes blink, and the fuzz around her dissipates. Whatever trance she was in, she is out of it.

‘I’m going into your mind,’ he says, dispensing with pleasantries. And then, he reaches out his hand to her face – it’s stronger that way – and he pushes himself into her head.

He can feel her skin against his fingers. Warm, alive, still human. She is trying to move away, but he has locked onto her. His hand binds them together, makes them one mind.  She’ll never be free.

+

 

It’s the same place as the night before, except without the flames. Luke’s white expanse rolls out before him, pure and pristine. Fucking horrendous looking place, he thinks. Devoid of character, of presence, of emotion.

 _Did your head used to be like this, before my uncle got inside it?_ he asks her.

She doesn’t answer that. She is fighting so hard against him. Her mental control is sharper than last night – she must have been meditating hard, to achieve this. She is giving nothing away, not letting him take anything. There’s no fire, no room. Nothing except washed-out nothing.

They are stuck in the white dunes together, the sky an insipid blue, a distant endless ocean. Her presence is light, as if she is only half-there. He has to fight to keep her there, to keep her with him.

In a way, it’s rather admirable that she can do this.

 _He taught me too_ , he says. _You think I can’t break through this?_

He imagines the ocean, and for him it is turbulent. The waves break. There are sick, vile creatures alive in it – things that eat the smaller, weaker prey. Blind things that devour, ceaseless and terrible.

The water is cold – too cold for human life, for animal life. It is deadly, and its depths are murderous. He imagines the thousands of animals that are killed there. The simple brutality of nature.

A storm crashes overhead.

In her mind, there is a distant rumble of the ocean breaking. The sand dunes seem to ripple.

_See?_

He waves his hand, and it begins to rain. The dune sands become thick with water, the ground under them becoming harder to stand on.

She seems to be shaking her head.

 _No_ , she thinks. _Get out._

He enjoys her discomfort, but only a little. He really isn’t human any more, he thinks. Her experience, her mind, only confirms it. There is a person inside here, for all its stillness. There is life in the dune grass, in the strange plants that burst out in new forms, in the animals that live here. There is life in her.

 He could traverse the deepest depths of the ocean without pain. The universe holds no place to which he cannot go. He is not alive in the way that she is alive.

 _Really?_ She says. _You’re not alive?_

He is surprised that she can read his thoughts here. But then again, she is stronger than he gives credit for. He must be more careful, more controlled.

 _I’m more than alive_ , he responds. _I have ascended to a new plain of –_

She snorts with derision, and the sound is one he hasn’t heard before.

There is a sudden violence in her, as she tries to imagine something, tries to access an old memory. He hears his father’s laugh.

There is Han Solo, aboard the Falcon, with Uncle Chewie. She is there too. Han has his hand above his head, in that lazy gesture that Ben remembers from his –

Something in him twists uncomfortably.

Han is lifting up a glass of that stuff he was always drinking, that beer he stashed on the Falcon, and Chewie is talking, saying, oh he knows the language, he remembers it – his uncle’s saying, ‘better get to Coruscant before Wednesday, or else they’ll be all over us’ -

The visceral nature of the memory is too much. He’s in her memory, and he’s experiencing it as if he were there. He has been there, a thousand times – on the Falcon, in her seat, looking at Han and Chewie just like she is –

 _He has been there_.

There’s something he doesn’t like here.

 _Stop doing this_ , he thinks to her. _It has no effect on me to remember Han Solo. It is merely a distraction._

 _But I like remembering him. It’s my head._ She sounds quite calm. _I can be as distracting as I want. I can recollect what I like._

Another memory flashes up in her, of Luke Skywalker. He is training her. She isn’t any older than she is now, but the thing she is learning, he learned when he was eight years old.

He can feel her frustration at not getting it right. Luke’s too. He seems to be pissed off with her, from the look on his face – what you can see of it under the beard, anyway.

 _I never got how to do that_ , she thinks, almost confessional. _Too late now._

He is being goaded to respond, in more ways than one. He doesn’t answer her. He focuses on regaining control, pushing her into revealing what he needs. He is here for information on the resistance, not a family reunion in someone else’s head.

 _You are human_ , she thinks. _You are fucking human. Not a snake. Not a monster. Not some demon in some terrifying ocean in your head. You are a person._

Her voice isn’t calm now. She’s losing the control she’s had – he can feel the atmosphere thickening. It’s going to be a terrible storm. Or perhaps another fire, perhaps there will be a great sandstorm of fire rolling out from those dunes.

He hopes she lets go. It would be good for him, if she can destabilise her defences, let herself get burned up in her own rage. That would be the ideal method of extracting the data he needs.

 _It’s very naïve of you to think that_ , he says.

And then, he conjures up his own memory. He pictures the precise moment at which Han Solo died, the way he looked into Kylo Ren’s eyes, and the way he fell.

 _Look, Rey,_ he says. _I can watch this forever. All I see is an insignificant and weak person falling to his death._

She watches, and a tear falls down her face. She reaches out her hand, as if to steady Han’s fall – as if she could. Around her, there is the static noise of her fury, intermingled with pain.

 _I’m not giving you anything_ , she thinks. She looks at him directly. _Never._

With all her force, she tries to push him out of her head. This time he’s prepared for it. He doesn’t falter. She’s strong – but nothing he can’t handle.

 _I’ll leave when I want_ , he thinks. _Soon enough, you’ll be begging me to take everything._

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Four days later, he dreams about her.

The interrogations have gone nowhere.

No matter how he has pushed, she has withheld. He has tried to break apart her memories, to drain the ocean, to wipe clear the sand of the dunes, stripping it all away, leaving nothing but herself and him. Him, a waiting audience to her tremulous fear, her loss of hope.

He has let storms rain down on them. He has pushed her to the ground and screamed his demands. He has thrown her into water, has rubbed her face into the grit of sand. He has shown her power, has tried to teach her fear.

She hasn’t faltered. The ocean has held, the dunes have stayed. He has stained them with her blood, but only in his imaginings.

In reality, she goes unmarked. She is weak, tired and beaten, but he doesn’t draw her blood. Every night when he’s done, he just lets her stand there, in the cell. Stands opposite her. Tells her she looks like shit, that she needs to sleep. Or that she ought to use the fresher, because she stinks.

She is actually sleeping, he thinks, but in short bursts. She must have slept, but it has been fitful and unwanted sleep, whenever it was. She is drooping. She eats, the guards say, but very little. She drinks.

She has a will to live, he supposes. Just not much of one.

In her mind, and thus in his own, she looks whole. She is fresher, sharper. Clean. Her mind is still contained, still holding strong. It radiates presence. Skywalker has taught her, and he can feel the power of his uncle ebbing through her. It is hard to break.

She never speaks out loud to him, but that doesn’t matter. They talk better inside their minds than they do out loud anyway.

She had held. But nothing holds forever. There are so many more days to come. As many as he needs.

 

+

 

In his dream that night, she is different.

Softer, for one thing. Stripped of her tattered uniform, undressed to something beneath it. Dreams are amorphous. Who knows if it is a night dress, a shirt, or nothing at all. All he knows is that against his hands, it feels voluminous, achingly soft and light. It falls like fresh-spun silk on his fingers as he grasps at it. Nothing where he is can be as soft as this.

They seem to be holding hands, or at least touching them to each other.

‘You’re real,’ she says, and her voice is distorted, filtered. ‘You’re still real.’

Her lips are parted, red. He bits her lower lip, dragging her closer towards him. Violent want, the possession of violence in him. He puts his hands around her. There is a frisson of surprise in her. A thrill of it.

He strokes her skin. At first, his hand is only touching her side, the curve of her hip, her stomach. She lets out a whimper, and he doesn’t know if it’s consent or dread. It doesn’t make a difference. He grips onto her, holding her by the waist. He puts his mouth against her neck, exhaling, kissing. Her skin smells like power.

His hand traverses the upper reach of her thigh, stroking her slowly there, so very slowly. She is still in his grasp, immobile. He warms himself by her skin, tracing careful circles up the softness of her thighs. He presses his fingers into her, just lightly, close. Enough that she whimpers again.

This time, he thinks it’s pleasure. His own, hers. What difference does it really make?

He moves one finger inward, upward. He touches her cunt with that finger, just softly, just an isolated touch, a single stroke, a single curve on her clit. She moans, arches into him, too pliant, too willing.

 He gives her nothing more. Withdraws his hand. Pliancy isn’t the thing he wants.

Instead, he moves his hand to himself, strokes his own half-hard cock in slow, steady rhythm, rising it. He takes care with it. He wants her to see. Her wants her to witness the exact moment at which he comes. To know the way he does this to himself.

She’s watching his hand, the way it’s moving. He knows what she’s imagining. That slow, agonising care he’s taking.  The preciseness of his movements, the way that he never deviates from the rhythm of the stroke. His fingers tracing that same rhythm against her cunt. He wants her to imagine exactly that.

He requires her desire in this. He doesn’t require her participation.  

His lips are on her neck, and he bits down, hard. He grasps her tighter around the waist. He hurts her. His hand is strong. He doesn’t stop moving.

His cock is leaking so much precum, droplets of it against his swollen head, on his clasped hand. She has to watch. She can’t look away.

Her eyes meet his and he comes hard over her. Her stomach, her side. He moves his cock all over her body, letting his cum squirt onto her, lines of the stuff over her. With his fingers, he smears it, pressing roughly into her, not caring. He drags his head against her skin, making sure every last bit of cum is on her body.

Until she gives him what he wants, this is all she’s worth This satisfies him for now.

To finish, he kisses her skin where he came on her, licks at it with a flick of his tongue. He knows what he tastes like, that salt bleach. He’s tasted it in women’s mouths often enough. He likes licking it off her now. He makes a show of cleaning part of her off.

It’s a reminder that she belongs entirely to him.

 

+

 

It’s an uncomfortable night’s sleep that leaves him ill-rested. He can’t seem to get her out of his dreams.

She remains there through the night, a shadowy presence in his unconscious mind. An unwilling participant in his mind, neither able to leave nor fully present within him. Her scent nags at him. The way her body moves. The taste of her skin.

He can’t quite shake her from the other dreams he has, strange, hybrid forms. As Kylo Ren, he dreams of nothing. Battle, death, a red light that marks the edge of a blade. The darkness and the shadows.

Even there, she is walking with him.

Later, he dreams about something else. He moves differently, as if he might be a monkey like those he has seen in jungles. Something light and small that climbs and connives. There is a desert, the roar of a desert wind in the distance. The sounds of metal. A little girl’s fear. A need for survival.

It is only when he wakes up that he realises that it was her dream.

 

+

 

He waits until twilight to visit her again. Then, in the crepuscular light when even here everything is golden-cast, he comes to her.

She has slept, that much is obvious. She looks a little stronger.  The cot’s covers have been disrupted.  It also looks like she has used the fresher, because her hair isn’t so lank.

He tells her she looks better than yesterday, but of course, she doesn’t say a word. She just shrugs her shoulders slightly, like the comment is beneath her dignity to hear.

He has to admit, he likes her better clean.

 ‘I suppose it would be pointless to tell you that resisting is only prolonging the inevitable?’ he says, not expecting an answer. And then, quite calmly, he insinuates himself into her mind. Now he knows how she operates, it’s easier. She doesn’t put up much resistance.

 His hand touches her skin, and he has a sudden flash of his dream of the night before.

Then, they are there, walking in her mind. The same dunes, the same ocean. Untouched and tranquil. This time, there are a few birds overhead, winging gulls that mewl and shriek their needs, diving into the ocean, bills splashing wet. There are dune plants that are in bloom, bright pink flowers, odd formations.

 _I can tell you slept_ , he says to her. _You’re imagining more things here now._

 _My sleep was fine_ , she says, although that’s not what he asked. Her eyebrow raises, just a fraction. There is anger in her, steadily controlled but nevertheless there. _How was yours, Ben?_

He shrugs, disquieted although unwilling to acknowledge it. _My sleep is irrelevant. I need to know about the Resistance. Where are they based? What is their central base of operations?_

 _Mm_ , she says. The ocean is undulating gently, and there is a beautiful sea fret, a mist that seems to rise effortlessly into the white clouded sky, as if there could be no separation between the two. _I’ll never tell you what you want._

She looks at him, then. Her face turns to him, raised upwards. Her lips are just slightly parted, just like in his dream.  He can feel that her energy is stronger. There is something else here. Some sort of _hope_ that she was lacking yesterday.

 _I won’t tell you_ , she says. _It doesn’t matter what you do._

_I can hurt you._

She looks at him directly. _I know you can. I know you will._

 _It’s a shame though,_ he adds. _To damage you. You’d be more useful to us if you joined us. We could offer you so much that you need._

_My answer’s not changed from the last time you asked._

_A pity._

_It’s not all bad in you_ , she says. _Not everything._

 _It’s enough_.

He lifts his hand to her throat, encircles it. He squeezes the air out from her windpipe, gradually. In someone’s mind, one can do anything. There’s no death here. There’s as much suffering as anyone could imagine though; limited only by the scope of imagination. Her eyes are watering with the pain of it, the discomfort as she tries to breathe. It looks like she is crying, her eyes are watering so much.

He drops his hand. She gasps, inhales shudderingly, short sharp breaths.

 _It’s more than enough_ , he says, emphasising. _You know, Rey, I can do anything to you here. I’m in your mind. I can make you feel anything. I can do anything._

 _Yes,_ she says. _But it’s still my mind. There are things I can do._

He grimaces at her, a contorted smile.

_Showing me Han Solo really isn’t that likely to change anything. Nor Luke, nor Leia, nor anyone you might think would affect me._

_No_ , she agrees. There is a pause, as she seems to be considering her next action. _But there’s always this._

And then she leans forward, and she kisses him.


	3. Chapter 3

The kiss is dispassionate. He feels the pressure of her lips against his, but there is no warmth behind it. Nothing in her wants this. He can feel the lack of desire that is vibrating through her mind, replaced only by an absence, a blankness in her.

The tranquillity of the setting is disrupted, broken apart by the way she is doing this. She kisses like she isn’t there, as if her lips are only incidentally connected to her, some undesired, unknown aspect of a body she has no role within. The skin of her upper lip is slightly chapped, different to his dream.

Mechanically, she presses her body against his. He lets her. He takes in the feel of her, the shape of her body. The warmth of her stomach, the sharpened curve of her hipbone. The vulnerability of her. How small she is, how thin and light. He doesn’t respond. He lets himself be pressed into, lets her move a cautious hand up his side.

It has allure. He is interested by her, he can admit that. He kisses her back ungenerously, his lips sealed tightly shut. He is permitting himself to be kissed. It isn’t more than that.

Still. It’s been a long time since he was pressed up against by another human being, let alone one in the form of a young girl. He enjoys the sensation, the strangeness of it, in some abstract way. She is robotic, but she is alive. Her lack of desire doesn’t present an absolute barrier to doing this.

 _I can do this_ , she thinks, her voice firm.

She rubs herself against him, her breasts against his torso. Her cunt presses into him. He has a momentary instinct to pull her further towards him, but he resists it. Let her do the work, if this is what she desires. Her cunt is warm, but he can’t imagine it’s wet.

Perhaps though. Perhaps this automation is something she gets off on. Perhaps she likes it this way. Perhaps she’s soaked wet, slippery, begging to be fucked hard.

 _This is what you want_ , she thinks. Her voice is flat. _I know this is what you want._

 _This is pitiful,_ he thinks in return, although it isn’t only that. _As a distraction technique, this is surely something even Skywalker would have condemned._

She shrugs. Her hand moves towards his cock. She rubs against the fabric, and he feels a frisson of pleasure despite himself.

 _I don’t think Luke has much to do with this_ , she says. _I’d prefer to leave him out of it._

Her hand moves in a steady stroke, up towards the button of his trousers. She unfastens them with slightly fumbling fingers.

 _I was in your dream_ , she adds. _I know what you want now. Why you’re keeping me unharmed._

She pressures her hand against his underwear, against his cock. The heat of it floods him with desire, hardening his cock. She strokes its shape, firm and controlled. Her fingers cup the head, sliding down it and then back into a firm grasp.

 _I know_ , she repeats.

He lets her. For a brief moment, he loses himself to the sensation.

 _This isn’t what this is,_ he thinks back. He regains himself. _I need information from you. My dreams are – they are immaterial_

She is good with her hands. She still hasn’t touched his skin, only through the fabric, but he is fully hard, almost moving in time with the stroke of her fingers. She works him almost professionally, in disinterested, regular strokes.

It works just fine for him like this.

The only point of contact between them is her hand on his pants. Otherwise, she stands distant from him, her other hand hanging loose at her side. He hasn’t touched her, has no intention of doing so.

He is aching for her to make contact with his skin. He has a need for her to just take his cock in her hand, to touch it, to stroke it.

For him, need is the same as possession. Whatever he needs, he has the right to it. He grabs her hand with his own, pushes it underneath, snaking past the elastic of the waistband. At the contact with her fingers on his cock, he feels a new thrill. He can do anything. In her mind, but in reality too. There is no place in which he cannot control her.

She grips his cock lightly in her hand, one of her fingers stroking idly on its head, tracing a too casual circle. He wants to whimper, to moan, but he stays stock still.

 _We can strike a deal_ , she says. _I’ll do this, I’ll submit to your questioning. But you don’t hurt me. Not without my consent. Not physically._

He thinks this over, as much as he can think.

 _You don’t have any choice about the questioning_ , he points out.

_Maybe not. But I have a choice about this._

She moves her hand at exactly the rhythm and speed he likes, and he lets out a little half groan. She must have been in his dream, she must really have been watching. To do it so well, the first time.

She stops, loosening her hold slightly.

 _I can choose this_ , she thinks.

Around them, all is still and calm. The dunes are soft under his feet - he goes barefoot here, enjoys the sensation of it. The ocean laps idle at the shore. He senses no distress in her. No overt willingness, but no fear, no impulsive decision-making. She is offering a simple trade.

Sex for a lack of being choked, maimed and brutalised. All the things the she must have known were coming next, sooner or later, as he continued his torture of her.

 _I’m not bad_ , she adds. _There’s nothing I haven’t done before._

The way she says that, the note of hesitant pride in her voice, as if she has to dare to admit it so baldly. It is entirely possible that she is a virgin, the way she delivered that line.

That idea has quite some appeal. It sends a rush of blood to his cock, and the contact with her fingers feels even more urgent now. He makes himself focus instead on the setting, to play with her mind, to make the sky darken to grey cloud, to bring a swooping bird down, felled into the ocean below it. He regains himself.

_I might prefer to hurt you. Sex might be less interesting to me than seeing you suffer._

He offers this possibility up casually, with no tone to his voice. It is as if he were discussing a preferred food, a meaningless memory.

She strokes his cock again, just lightly. _You can make me suffer, if that’s what you want_. _Just not outside of my head._

_Are you interested by that, Rey?_

If he knew how to smile, he would take this moment to try it. Perhaps deep down, all she wants is to be hurt. To be proven right about the worst thoughts she has about herself.

 _Not usually_ , she answers, her voice steady. _If you prefer something else, we can do that too._

Now she takes a step closer to him, removing the distance between them. She puts her other arm around his back. She looks up at him, her eyes very calm.

 _I can do whatever you want_ , she says. _I can be anything and so can you._

s there really any decision to make? She has her hand in his pants, she’s stroking his cock, and she’s looking at him with such guileless eyes, this little virgin Jedi whore.

 He grabs her to him, lifting her up, his hand supporting her ass. She wraps her legs around him, and he moves to lick at her neck, kissing it, biting on it. He elicits a moan of pain from her. Then, he drops her down to the ground. She falls, surprised, but lands smoothly.

  _I haven’t decided on your offer. I want to know what you can do first. Use your mouth_ , he tells her.

She nods. A tacit understanding surely passes between them. The very fact he is asking her, the very fact she is agreeing. The deal is done.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

She uses her mouth, hot and tight against his cock. There’s no hesitation in her. She just does it, lifts his cock out from his underwear, and takes it into her mouth. He’s already hard, and the smooth, careful pressure from her tongue is enough to make him feel like trembling.

He doesn’t look at her. He watches the sky, its vast formlessness. There are no clouds. It is only a pale, washed out kind of blue, expanding everywhere above them. Earlier there were birds, but now there is nothing at all.

Looking at it makes him feel suddenly anxious. It is too vast, too pure and clean.  It’s unfortunate that she should be doing this in such a dull mental landscape, but he doesn’t have the capacity right now to change it. So he closes his eyes instead, focusing on her touch, the way her lips feel against his cock, the hot exhale of her breath on his skin.

She sucks him off efficiently, gliding her lips around his head, rubbing them against him, bearing down to take him further in, withdrawing, and then, with agonising slowness, drawing him back into her mouth, inch by inch.

Her tongue is wet, flat against the length of his cock. She licks, without varying her movement, and he does moan at that.

There’s nothing that feels like this. The warmth, pressure, suction. It feels unbearably good. There’s no way he can hold out too long; it’s been years, and she’s so fucking pure.

He’s going to come hard, and he doesn’t tell her when he’s close, when his balls are tight with it and his body aches with need to cum, and all he can think about is that. Let her find out for herself.

She licks a slow stripe along his cock, and then pulls him back into her mouth, sucking fast. In a burst of white and heat, he releases. She doesn’t even try to stand up, to pull away. Not that he would let her if she wanted to do so.

She just swallows his cum down like it’s nothing, licks him gently to stay his orgasm, her tongue making his nerves shudder with pleasure, until he is spent.

He makes himself look back at that dead sky, her sad imagining of a place of peace. The emotionless blank world she has created for herself in this mind.

 _Get up,_ he says to her.

Dutifully, she does. She looks him straight in the eye, her lips slightly swollen. There is a trace of his cum on her left lip, a stain. He can’t sense much sexual desire in her, but that’s nothing to him.

 _Wipe your face_.

She does that too, her hand brushing against her lips, catching the faint line of cum he has left there.

If he were any sort of person, he might ask her what she wants, or might reciprocate, or do something to indicate that this was a matter of consent but is not the sole nature of their transaction. Of course, he isn’t a person.

So instead, he walks away from her, out onto the sands she has created, and looks out towards the ocean. It is still, and in its stillness is a latent violence that he hates.

He lifts his mind to it, and feels the crash of a distant wave, lets it break onto the shore. He channels rage, hatred, for all of this. For her, for this bargain they are making. The ocean crashes and crashes, over and over in a loop of a memory he has of the sea, something from long ago.

Behind him, she approaches. Her feet are soundless on the dune sand, but he can feel her just the same.

 _Is that for my benefit, or for yours?_ She asks, looking out towards the ocean.  Her tone is neutral enough that he doesn’t think he needs to reply.

So for a brief second more, he watches the ocean. A terrifying wave shudders and breaks.

 _Mine,_ he says, finally. _Mostly._

At that, she does something extraordinary. She almost smiles. It’s just a subtle, half curve of her lip, almost imperceptible – but he sees it. It jars him. This is her being tortured, imprisoned and violated. He doesn’t want her to smile.

Unsettled, he steps out of her mind, and back to her cell. She is there, of course, looking as if nothing at all has happened. Her face is perfectly clean and blank.  

‘You have to eat,’ he tells her, looking her up and down. In real life, she’s thinner than she is in her mind. ‘I don’t want to have to break our deal and force you. You’re not going to die on hunger strike, Rey. We’re not going to permit that.’

To this, of course, she says absolutely nothing. She just looks at him, wide eyed. Inside her mind, he knows now, there’s nothing but that terrible washed-over blankness. Or perhaps even worse, there’s something else, but that’s all she’ll ever show to him, until he cracks through her defences.

If he ever will, the treacherous thought whispers.

As he walks away from her, back down the corridor towards his offices, he thinks about the way she half-smiled. It isn’t a soft, tender thought. It isn’t as if he _enjoyed_ seeing her smile; nothing so crude, so human, as that. It’s just a muscle movement. Nothing to care about. He’s cut plenty of smiles open in the past. He’s conclusively sure that they’re just made of bone, tendon and skin like anything else.

It’s rather that he doesn’t understand that smile, and things that he doesn’t understand bother him.  Somehow, he has the feeling that in Rey, there’s something he’s missing. He’s inside her mind. Pretty soon he’ll be inside her cunt, her ass, her mouth again. There’s no way in which she doesn’t belong entirely to him, in which he cannot have her, cannot see her.

Despite that, he can’t shake the feeling that no matter how often he pushes into her mind, he isn’t ever going to understand her at all.

+

It isn’t until he’s lying down in his own bed, not sleeping nor even expecting that he will be able to, that he realises he didn’t really ask her anything about the Resistance today. He just let her suck his cock.

Perhaps that is her plan, such as it is. That he will be so overwhelmed and distracted by sex that he’ll _forget_ to ask her.

Surely no one could be so stupid as to imagine that is likely? Can she really be conflating desire with emotion, as if she were nothing more than a young girl?  How long does she think her cock-sucking skills are going to get her, as grace periods go? A day? Three? And then?

He likes getting sucked off. He may not be a human being, per se, but he has a functional cock and she’s young, pure, powerful and attractive, and as far as he’s concerned she’s a cumslut. He has open all access to her body and her mind. Of course he _likes it_.

It just doesn’t change the final goal he has, which is to find out where the Resistance are, what they’re planning, and then to kill her and throw her body on the waste heap outside the compound, along with the rest.

Perhaps once in spirit, she’ll enjoy whatever heaven good people such as her are going to. He always imagined that it would be something rather like the dunes and the ocean, the way Luke went on about it – boring as fuck, fuck all to do, and full of white.

He falls asleep to that thought.

 

His dream tendrils into another, and then another. Vague forms, whispers. A kitchen table, in a dimly lit room that he has never seen. Pots and pans stacked loosely on the counters, a bowl of fruit left standing. He lifts one of the fruits, something round and red, and bites into it.

It tastes of blood, iron and tang, but he doesn’t spit it out. If anything, he licks his lips, lets it stain them blood-red too.

 _Interesting colour_ , she says. Her voice is soft. _Not sure it suits y-_

Instinctively, he grabs for her. Where did she come from? Dreams don’t matter that way. She has always and never been here, just like him. Her body is warm, pliant to his touch.

 He begins to kiss her, letting his lips move over her skin, curved into neck, butterfly kisses to her jaw, her earlobes, kissing her like he’s young and pure and so is she. It feels as if there is nothing else to do but to kiss her.

She makes a little encouraging sound that goes straight to his cock, and then she murmurs again as he continues to kiss her soft and everywhere, frantic, unable to stop himself from doing this.

They are in bed, the dream unfolding into exactly the place he wants to be.  He finds that he’s fucking her, thrusting into her with fast, rapid strokes. His hands are gripping at her hips. She’s tight there too, just like her mouth.

It’s hard to stop, so he doesn’t. He drives into her, and she whimpers, but it isn’t pain. Still, he slows to a softer rhythm, lifting her for better access, his hands gripped on her ass and hips tight, positioning her.

With his mouth, he presses to her, in a needy, blind kiss. She reciprocates it, and he can feel her tongue, the softness of her lips, as he fucks her like this, like he wants and like she wants. He doesn’t want this to ever stop, but it’s hard to keep onto it, in a dream like this where everything is quicksand and lost time.

 _We’re dreaming_ , she says, her voice indistinct, blurred. _And you don’t fuck like you’re dead._

 _I’m not dead,_ he thinks, vaguely. Is this a conversation they had?

They’re still fucking, him bearing down on her gently, moving in time. He can feel her cunt clenching around his cock, as she tightens to orgasm. She must be close; she has her fingers on her clit, she’s touching herself. He didn’t give her permission to do that. He wants to stop her, to hold her fingers, until she begs him to let her touch herself, just a little. He wants to deny her.

Dreams move in other ways than their owner’s plans. He uses his own finger, just lightly brushing her clit, and she makes a whimpering, startled sound. He slides just once, a careful stroke that makes her moan in pleasure, and then retracts his finger, lets her finish, moves back into fucking her, gentle thrusts, and then harder – much harder.

 _But you said it, not me_ , she says, sounding confused, as if this conversation is beyond her.

Her voice suddenly breaks, hoarse, as he touches her again, stroking a slow circle against her clit. _Oh, fuck, fuck_

And then, with a gasp, she is coming, and he sees the same colours that she sees, feels the same riotous bliss of orgasm, spreading through her, through him. It feels so warm and heavenly, and exactly as if she is floating into some minor stratosphere without an anchor, without a homecoming or landing point, that she might float and float until her end.

 _Ben_ , she says, her voice still broken.

He wakes with a start.


	5. Chapter 5

Of course, he’s back to the cell the next day, standing in front of her. She looks the same, although perhaps a little more rested than before. Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders and her clothes, too big, seem to fall off her, as if at any minute they might shrug themselves to the ground and disappear. Her body is vanishing, he thinks, as her presence in her mind is strengthening. She is becoming less than herself, at least less than the self that inhabits this room, these walls.

 Was she aware that she was in his dream? Was it her that he fucked like that, so gently? Her lips that he has kissed, as if they might be lovers? He isn’t really sure, and he finds that it doesn’t matter anyway. There is only here and now. When it counts, that is all that there is. And here, the blunt truth is, she is his prisoner, and he can do whatever he wants.

As always, he prepares to enter her mind, reaching out a controlled hand, almost lazy in his certainty. She looks back at him, soft-eyed, guileless. For the first time, she speaks.

‘No,’ she says.

Her voice sounds scratchy, different to how it sounds in her mind. Out of use and hoarse, not that smoothed edge of her inner voice.

Suddenly, with her fingers, she touches him, reaching out in a fast, jolting connecting to him. Light, a press of the tips of each finger to the softness of his neck. They don’t touch in this reality, not like this, and the movement jars him. He feels physically conscious of himself, of the way his heart beats against her touch, the pulse in his neck rising rapidly. There is nervousness there. He didn’t know he had the capacity for it, this human emotion. His heart beats expectantly.

She strokes her fingers on him, just gently, tracing the shape of his neck, moving her fingers up to his jaw. Her hand is warm, and this is really happening, here in this cell. She is the physical presence of this movement.

His skin feels somehow like it doesn’t fit him, he is so tense, so electrified by her touch. At any minute, he might step out of this skin, this barely fitted cloth, and become someone else. Her fingers feel like the burnt heat of electricity. The second it touches, you’re dead and in that death you’re alive. That is what this feels like.

Then, with a neatness that belies her, she enters his mind. The strength of her is white hot steel now, burnt to him, welded tight. She pushes her way in, through that touch, through his wanting of it. She isn’t forcing. She is just a woman stepping into room, her hand firmly on the door handle that pushes open to her presence.

The door swings open to her, and with a deft stroke, she is inside his mind. She smiles.

No one except Snoke has ever been here, not while he’s been Kylo Ren, and the unexpectedness of another presence here thrills and terrifies him. It isn’t a place that invites visitors. Here, everything is storm and rage and isolation, a dust bowl of a ruined planet, the ashes of it choke-stuff in his mouth, and hers.

Coughing slightly, she adapts to where they are. She puts her hand across her mouth, stopping the dust. It’s only in his mind, he wants to tell her. You can live here for decades and not choke to death. In the end, you just become the ash yourself, if you stay long enough.  

He doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything. Looks away from her, towards the horizon of scorched land, barren waste and uninhabitable space.

 _I don’t want you in my head_ , she says. _Not every time. I thought it was time I came to you instead._

He tries to find an answer to that. There’s anger here, throbbing in him. He doesn’t want her to be here, not in this foul place. It’s a better landscape than what Luke’s left her with, the blanched and endless tedium of her purity, but this is the wrong place for what he wants to do to her.

He wants to fuck her, hard, fast, slow. All the ways he can fuck. He wants her cunt wide open to him, her down on her knees in willing sacrifice. He wants his cum and his spit to dry on her, his fingers to mark her with their trace, their pain. He wants to inhabit everything that she is, and to take it from her.

Only the lizards crawl here, their bodies mutated forms, their eyes adapted to the dust and the dark and the cold. He hasn’t seen any other life here in a long time, not even himself. It is strange to see her here, her hair lifted slightly by the vague and broken wind that circles this ruined place.

 _Aren’t you going to do it like in your dreams?_ she says then. _I was there when you kissed me._

He knows that she was. Where else would she have been?

 _This wasn’t part of our arrangement_ , he tells her. _You need to leave this place. It’s an outrage that you’re here._

She shrugs, and she is too whole, too pure, to be here in all this death. Her eyes are still the same brown of her body’s eyes, and her mouth is the same red wet heat, the same fullness of her lower lip.

 _We can fuck here too_ , she says. _Can’t we fuck anywhere? Your mind or mine, what’s the difference?_

 _I decide what we do_ , he tells her. _That was our agreement. You have no power._

At this, she touches out her hand to him, pulling him towards her.

 _Our agreement was that you wouldn’t hurt me_ , she says. _And that I’d do whatever you want. And if what you want is to fuck me, then what does it matter where? I’ll do it here._

There is some argument here that he can agree with, he supposes. He does want to fuck her, and in the end, what is there in his mind that could give anything away to her? He has razed himself to the ground.  All she’ll see here is the truth: he isn’t a person, and she’s deluding herself if she thinks there’s the slightest chance of that changing. Fine, if that’s what she wants, they’ll fuck here, on the barren earth, the red dust of a dead planet.

He puts his hand to her cunt, possessive, unkind. Rough, he grabs at her, pulling, hurting her. It doesn’t matter. It puts him in the mood.

 _Take your clothes off_ , he tells her.

She stands there naked, because it’s only a dream, in its way. It’s happening in his head and hers. Her body is strong, lines and curves, muscle, sinew. He wonders, just for a brief moment, if this is how she still looks in real life. His hands are already drawing her towards him.

Once she is in his grip, his hand around her waist, his other tight against her ass, he asks what he needs.

 _Where are the Resistance?_ He thinks. _I’ll hurt you less if you tell me._

But at this, she says nothing. She only moves his hand with her own, gently pushing his fingers against the opening of her cunt.

 _Ask me later_ , she says. _I know you will anyway._

She is wet, he realises, as he half-strokes her there. Not only wet, more than that. She is soaking, slippery with it. At his stroke, she makes a little noise, something like a mewl or a soft cry, and moves, instinctively towards his fingers, pushing up at them, trying to rub herself against them when he doesn’t continue.

He risks another movement, hooking his finger slightly, pushing up a circle on her clit the way he can feel, if he tries to reach out to her, that she wants. There is desperation in her want, but it is only curiosity that motivates him, curiosity about her desire, about the extent to which she needs this.

Her reaction is extreme at his touch. Her body fires with it, with the need of it. She almost winces, and he can feel that it is pleasure and pain, and it doesn’t matter to her which it is most.  She must already be close, he supposes, from the way she feels when he touches her.

He strokes her, circling again, flicking lazily, gently, at her clit, and she moans out a _fuck_ , her whole body warming to it, like she needs it, like she’s been waiting for this. His cock aches with it, with the desire to fuck her, the need in him for this.

He doesn’t like need. Not in himself, anyway.

Slowly, he lifts his finger from her and he can feel that she is on the edge of orgasm, that it would take only a few strokes more to bring her there. She is swollen, her cunt full of life and heat and desire, and it would be so very easy to -

 _No_ , he says. 

He fucks into her then, hard, no gentleness in the movement. He wants this to be fast and rough and to not care. Fuck but he doesn’t care.

It’s his mind. He’s in control. He ruts her like she’s nothing but meat, tight, hot, wet for it and she cries out, and he’s fucking far too deep but so what? She breaks and it’s only in his mind. None of this is real. Tomorrow he can fuck her again. Today, any day, forever. There isn’t any breaking, there isn’t any too far.

Around them, there’s nothing at all. Dead earth and dead air. He fucks her so fast, and she’s as tight as if she might be a virgin. Perhaps she was, until this. Perhaps in reality she still is. What does any of it matter? He bites at her neck, scarring, too hard. One of his hands strokes a rough line down her back, and she is wet with sweat. His nails scrape her skin. He closes his eyes.

Now his hands are on her hips, holding her to him, with no intention of releasing her. He’s getting close to orgasm. He can feel it building there, the intense aching fuck of it, how he has to keep driving into her, how he can’t stop this, like it’s frenzy. Even if he wanted to, it would be impossible not to fuck her to orgasm now, when he’s so _close_ and pure and alive and her mind is full of life.

Fuck. She’s just meat, just a prisoner, nothing real, not even really _here._ Her eyes are so beautiful. She is so beautiful and she _is_ here, inside his mind.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She is incredibly beautiful and incredibly alive. He strokes her back again, soft for a moment, too lost in it to hold it back, but not lost it enough to let the feeling linger. Her hand around him responds, her fingers stroking his side, tender as if this is something else, something better and different than this.

With a sharp knife stab of despair, energy, passion, heat, joy, he comes.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

They fuck many times after that.

It’s always simple. Some time, usually at night, he walks towards her cell, his feet soft against the stone floor. He moves in darkness. He prefers it that way.  He can always feel her as he approaches, her white, radiant power. It calls to the part of him that used to be Ben Solo, and it calls to him as he is now, albeit in a different way. Jedi power, raw blazing heat. She is purpose, strength, belief. He knows what she is.

They never speak inside her cell. She never speaks at all. No guard has ever got a word from her. She eats and she sleeps, but she doesn’t talk. 

Despite their pact, she is tortured, sometimes, by other people. He occasionally finds marks on her, sees indentations on her neck where someone has choked her, scratches down her arm, a black eye, a swollen mess of her left eyelid. He doesn’t care what the guards do to her. None of it will work anyway. It’s mild, compared to what other prisoners receive, too. It is unspoken that she belongs to him. No one is going to mark his plaything too permanently. No one is going to hurt her beyond repair while he's visiting her every night.

Once, he stroked at a place where she had been beaten, just gentle, curious, his fingers exploring the stark blue bruising, a purple tendrilled blotch against her clavicle. He wondered how the bruise felt. She didn’t flinch. She never flinches, they say. She just looked at him, eyes bright, lips slightly parted.

She is turning into something closer to Luke, he thinks, as he look at her. He still dreams about Luke. He knows what his uncle looks like now. After all, he’s only dead in one dimension. It’s the others in which he isn’t dead that Kylo dreams about. Shapeless places, colours that don’t exist, time that hasn’t been. His uncle is only dead in the most tangential of ways. You can still see, if you know him well, that he is smiling.

He wonders what will be left of him, which dimension he’ll find himself in, when his own time comes. Wherever it will be, it won’t be the same one his uncle is in. Given the circumstances, he’s fairly clear about that.

He dreams about other dead people too, other Force-botherers he’s known. He doesn’t want to think about that, about where they are, about the formless, shifting edges of their screams he hears in the night. He doesn’t want to think about the way it’s all smeared with red and ash and the way their voices never seem to get hoarse, no matter how much they scream out.

He takes the view that the only sensible option for himself is to not die.  
  
For her, it is different. The light is starting to shine through her so brightly that her skin is turning translucent, as if the things inside her can no longer be carried there in the dark, because they are too bright and her body is too frail to hold them without fading. She is becoming light, less than human, less than skin or bone.

Glass, he thinks. She is turning into glass, through which light shines. Both of them are becoming less human, as the weeks go on. That glass, in time, will turn thinner still, to something even less substantial. One day, there will be nothing left of her body except the light that shines from the place where her body used to be, unbound by form, by time. She’ll be with Luke then.

They have made their bargain. He won’t lay a finger on her, not in this world. For now, they are both still breathing. If it happens that she moves to another world, their deal will break.

So all he does is to move towards her, and touch her face with his fingers, stroking a careful, unhurried line down her skin – her real skin. It feels warmer. She feels less knowable.

Outside her mind, nothing changes. She is their prisoner, and she waits, turning away from herself, from her earthly form. For what she is waiting, he has no idea. All he knows is that once he touches her, he can step inside the whiteness of her mind where she is still whole, and then he fucks her.  
  
 He fucks her hard, without ceremony, without kindness. Her body here is solid, formed as she was, as she could still be. She moves gracefully, lithe against him. The ocean and the dunes around them sweep outwards, blanched and wild. They fuck on the sand, and in the sky, his body pushing against her, around her, inside her, the air carrying them, whipping her hair into his face, his sweat on the breeze, hers, the smell of saltwater below them.

 Here, one can be anything. A bird, a person, a snake, a holder of light, a dead thing. One and the same, inside your mind.

He ruts her, marks her. He fucks her cunt, fucks into her mouth, letting his cum flood down her throat so she gags, uses her the way he wants to, the way she lets him.

He holds her down, sometimes, by the neck, using his teeth, drawing blood, pushing her flat down in the long grass of the dune grass. He bites her hard, his hands on her chest, forcing her submission as if she were an animal, and then he pushes his dick hard inside her, and he just fucks her, heedless, violent. She tastes like iron in his mouth, but he’s only imagining it. She only tastes like that because he knows that’s what blood tastes like. If he thought about it, her blood could taste like cinnamon or smoke. Nothing here has any truth except that which they pre-ascribe to it.

 When he cums, she doesn’t make a sound. It is he that moans, that releases like he’s in pain. She just lets him, and once, incredibly, she even strokes her hand down his back, as if she thinks this is something she is doing for him, a kindness being bestowed.

Sometimes, though, he doesn’t do it like that. There are other ways he can do it, if he tries.

Once, they are walking together, by the ocean. It laps, and there are birds wheeling overhead. They aren’t birds that belong here. They’re desert birds, he thinks, by their camel colour. They don’t camouflage here. Natural selection, if this were the real world, would have killed them long ago. They stand out, far too stark against the water and the white sands.

 _They’re from Jakku_ , she says, seeing him look at them. _They were they only birds we had there._

He doesn’t know why she talks to him.

 _You’re going to die,_ he tells her, because that’s what he’s thinking about it, and here it’s hard to not say the things you’re thinking. _You’re turning into light. In the real world outside._

 _Then it won’t be dying_ , she says, her tone unbothered. _It’ll be like it was for Luke._

He doesn’t like hearing the name on her lips, the way she speaks it with what might almost be reverence.

 _You dream about him too_ , she says. _I know you do._

 _Yes_ , he says.

 _So you know_ , she continues, _that he isn’t dead. Not in the ordinary way. And if that happens to me, it’ll be just the same._

_Is that what you’re waiting for?_

She almost smiles at that, just a half-smile, nothing he could dare to name.

_I’m not waiting for anything._

He changes abruptly, hoping to catch her. _And where are the Resistance?_

At this she just looks at him, remote and cool.

 _You know it doesn’t work that way,_ she says. _I won’t ever tell you that._

If she were a normal prisoner, he would hurt her. He would choke her, until she cried for air. He would do anything, everything. He would scar her face, her arms, her body. He would write his hatred into her skin, try to bleed out her goodness, to turn it into the ink he writes with. But they have made a deal, so he doesn’t do anything of those things. He just watches the ocean, calm, unyielding.

 _You don’t even want me to,_ she says, _not really. It’s been months._

 _We made a deal_ , he says. _I won’t hurt you._

She turns away from him, to face the distant sky. Her voice is low, almost broken.

_No, just fuck me._

Is that an invitation, or a comment on what he does? He takes it as he wants to take it, and he turns her to face him, manhandling her at the waist. He doesn’t like it when she turns away from him.

 _Yes_ , he says.

He kisses her then, because he wants to do that too. She tastes of almond and salt-air, and the tang of the blood he imagines in her. Her lips are soft and full, and he kisses her as if she were someone he –

She kisses him back, and it’s not the first time they’ve kissed. It’s not even the hundredth, not that he keeps count. Once they started, he found it hard to stop.

She is so pliant, and he loves the way that her mouth tastes, and the way her tongue moves, licking his inner lip, complaint, open, asking him for more. Her hands snake around his waist too, and he is drawn towards her.

They are already naked, if they want to be, and the ground is always soft. Sand can feel like silk, if you imagine that it does.

 He doesn’t always fuck her hard and rough. This time, it’s slower. He puts a hand on her cunt, and just gently pushes against her clit, ever so slight. She murmurs her pleasure, but she isn’t greedy. She’s learned that begging makes him stop. She’s a good girl, in that way, a quick study. He extends his charity just a fraction, gives her just a little more, touching exactly the right spot. He can feel that she’s trying not to moan, not to buck against his fingers, to flail, to demand.

It must be costing her quite some effort.

 He still won’t kiss her cunt, won’t finger her to orgasm. He’s not that kind of man. He doesn’t choose to bestow his favours on her the way she does on him. It’s been months that they’ve been here, and he’s never brought her to orgasm or allowed her to do it to herself. But each time that she’s good, each time that she isn’t greedy, he gives her a little more.

He thinks of it as training, if he thinks of it at all. Some day, he supposes he’ll have to let her orgasm. It seems inevitable that might happen.

He fucks into her, and turns them so that she is riding him. Increasingly, he likes to see her when they fuck. He likes to watch the way she moves on his cock, sliding up and down. He prefers that she works for it, because he knows she is trying to frot her clit against him as they move so that she can cum, trying to find the angle that will let her get what she needs.

He doesn’t ever plan to let her get what she needs. This is only about him and what he needs. She is the prisoner.

Sometimes, she rides him so hard that he almost can’t bear it. There are times when he truly can’t stand it, and he pushes over and kisses her so roughly that his lips burn with it, and he has to fuck her into the ground so he can get what he needs, and she never says _stop_ or _no_ , but just lets him.

Even as he’s hurting her, he can feel pleasure in her, about which he doesn’t care, but then his hands are caressing her breasts, and he’s kissing her with hunger and sincerity and he worships her body, and he is experiencing so much pleasure himself that he almost feels as if he _isn’t_ himself, because Kylo Ren doesn’t –

Fuck it, fuck it. At some point, he stops thinking altogether. He feels her fingers entwining with his, and he lets her. He grips her so tight as he comes.

After he leaves her mind and re-enters her cell, he doesn’t say a word to her. He just walks away from her without looking back. He isn’t even dirty. None of it has happened, none of it is real. His feet are so silent on the stone floor that leads him towards his sleeping quarters, out there in the darkness.

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

His dreams are fitful these days. Since Rey became his prisoner, he’s lost too much sleep. He’s aware of how perilously close to fractured he feels, like something about to break. The places where he could snap, he almost feels them in himself. The moments of strain. It’s getting harder to stay connected to his body.

Sometimes people talk to him, and he doesn’t know who’s answering. Everything feels more confused, less grounded in any reality he can trace. He ought not to be using the Force so much, to be so present in someone else’s head. It isn’t good for people. He doesn’t know why he can’t stop.

It’s not only that he spends time with her, in her mind, fucking her when he should be asleep, though. It’s that when he does sleep she is there too, circling his dreams, higher than them as if she is a crow above him, watchful, wary. Her thoughts are woven into the fabric of his mind now, her voice echoing there where it should be his own.

He never did like dreaming. Not since he became Kylo Ren.

The thing with the Force is, once you access it, you can’t undo it. There’s no doorway that you can close, not once you’ve stepped through it. Once you violate someone’s mind, once you open yourself to them, there is no close.

If he dreams, she has access to it. If she dreams, he has access to it. They are melding together, as she fades to light and as he leaves his human self behind. Their essences are becoming more permeable. What will be left of the two of them, he wonders?

She whispers things in his dreams that aren’t anything like what happens in her mind. Things that sound clearer and sharper.

That night, she appears, and she is precious and cold, like a diamond in stone. Adamant, granite. Her presence there is unwelcome, and in his dream, he cowers, tries to draw away from her, but he finds that he can’t. Wherever he moves, she is there. She is blended into him; he can’t move away from her. His dream unfurls like the petals of a rose, and inside the rose is only another rose, and then another, and another. He can’t get out.

 _I want you, this time,_ she says, and her voice isn’t like he thinks it is either.

 _Down on your knees_ , she says, and it’s not how it’s supposed to go, but he finds himself, unwilling, bent to his knees. Is he really unwilling? He isn’t sure, and it doesn’t matter. Her beauty is violent. It screams to be seen, to be heard, to be touched.

Rey doesn’t smile, and she doesn’t kiss him.

 _I want you to give me what I need_ , she says. _It’s your turn._

 _I -_  he tries to wake up, to control this, to get around it, but it’s only a dream, and of course, he can’t.

 _I’m tired of waiting_ , she says. _Use your fingers first._

She is standing while he kneels, and he looks up at her face. Her eyes are lidded with desire, and with disdain. There is an awful coldness there, something he has never seen.

 _Don’t look at me_ , she says. _You don’t get to look at me._

She takes his hand, roughly, and presses it to her cunt.

 _Use your fingers_ , she says again.

 _No_ , he thinks. _No, this isn’t how it goes._

Dreams are malleable, shifting things. The separation between word and thought is larger here. He thinks it, but the words don’t come out. It’s only an idea, a fuzz of thought, and he can’t make it real.

Rey is content to wait, her hand holding his own to her cunt. She presses against him, rubbing slightly, almost nuzzling his fingers with her body.

So he fingers her, not minding after all. She is so wet, so swollen with desire, with need. He hooks his index finger, just slightly, curving it against her clit, rubs for her.

 _Give me more_ , she thinks. _Give me everything._

That’s his line, but he does it. It’s not that bad doing this, not in his dreams, not when he’s out of control. He can be giving, can’t he? He still remembers how. She’s so wet, and the way she’s pushed against him, the way she’s moaning, her teeth gritted –

 _More_ , she thinks. _Fuck, I need more._

It’s like trying to remember a place he saw in another dream. He knows how to do this.

Without thinking about it, he moves his head towards her, and she moves to meet him. He’s still kneeling. He puts an arm around her, holding her to him.

He uses his tongue now. It’s only a dream, after all. This intimacy, this giving. It’s not him doing it, not really. He holds her open. The taste of her is musky and warm. The feel of her skin, the nubbin of her clit, its rounded edges on the tip of his tongue. He licks at her, and she is on the edge. She is so very close now.

With his hand, he strokes her lower back, as he licks, flicking his tongue lightly against her clit. She whimpers, pushing against him, and the sound sends him wild. This is humiliating, he thinks, this dream. He doesn’t do any of this.

The way she moves, the scent of her. Her body. It is intoxicating. He thinks, almost wildly, that he worships her. He doesn’t know where the thought comes from. He presses his face closer to her cunt, works for her. She is lost, gripping, aching for this -

With one final, deft stroke, he licks her. She almost screams when she comes, her whole body arched in tension, releasing outwards into pleasure, bucking, grinding against him. He holds on to her through it, unable to stop doing this, unable to stop stroking her, touching her, feeling her.

 _I do worship you_ , he thinks to her, and she spirals into another wave of pleasure, another motion of ecstasy. She puts her hands in his hair, pulls him up towards her, up from his knees. Kisses him, wet, languid, full of spent bliss.

 _Ben_ , she thinks. He doesn’t answer that; he can’t. It’s just a dream. That isn’t who he is, not really.

He wakes up, and the taste of her is still on his lips.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
